Change
by Evandar
Summary: After the Great War, England's relationship with France goes through some changes. FrUK


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Hetalia_ and am making no profit from this.

**AN: **I may have been taking this somewhere, but I can't remember where exactly, so yeah. Consider it finished. I do.

Change

by Evandar

He'd slept with France before – drunken one-night stands and vicious fucks on battlegrounds. It was hardly a relationship. He couldn't stand the blasted frog when he was sober, even if he did – barely –qualify as one of England's few friends.

The Great War changed that, as it changed so many things. In the aftermath of the greatest bloodshed that the world had ever seen, they found themselves propping each other up instead of at each others' throats. France was gaunt and pale and only seemed to get through those early peace meetings thanks to sheer strength of will.

England found himself impressed.

He didn't think overly much of it until war broke out yet again and he found himself sharing a cigarette with France outside of a tactics meeting.

"I cannot do this again, Angleterre," he murmured.

England looked at him and saw pain. France's movements were slow and measured and the skin around his eyes was tight with unspoken agony. He passed the cigarette back without a word, without taking a drag. Trenches and minefields were open wounds on France's body and England knew that under that ridiculous uniform, he would be bound in swathes of bloody bandages.

He'd wished a slow and painful death on France more than once; he hadn't thought it would be so hard to watch it happen.

"You will," he said eventually. "You're impossible to get rid of."

France snorted and winced. "You make me sound like a cockroach."

England's gaze followed the thin hand that fluttered to France's ribs and a hidden wound. "You said it," he said.

…

Blitzkrieg opened a savage gash down the length of England's back, right next to his spine. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe for crippling agony. He wore gauze and bandages under his uniform and a stiff upper lip. The last thing he would ever want is for anyone to discover the true extent of the damage, but as always his wishes are labelled irrelevant. France was the one to find him changing the dressings in the bathroom during a meeting break. He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching silently.

"Fucking Luftwaffe," England said. He spoke to break the moment more than anything else – the was something about the silence and the look in France's eyes that unnerved him.

He dropped blood-soaked linen into a sink and washed red off his hands. France finally moved, crossing the room and picking up the fresh dressings as if it was something he did every day. His fingers trembled as he started to redress England's wounds – he couldn't seem to stop shaking, those days – first applying a healing salve and then the gauze. His touch was oddly tender and England forgot to breathe.

He remained still under France's ministrations, watching their reflections in the mirror as fresh bandages are wound around his stomach and chest. France's movements were practised and precise and for a moment England was staggered by the thought of how many times he must have done it before – how many times they'd both done it.

Finished, France pressed a soft kiss to the back of England's neck. He left without a word while England was still frozen; before England could kill him for taking such a liberty. Not that he would have – a strange warmth had settled in England's chest at the gesture.

Things had changed.

…

The marriage certificate tore easily in his grasp and he ripped it again and again and let it fall like confetti to the surface of his desk. Francis – and when, exactly, had he stopped being France? – looked pained and the sight of his expression made England's heart clench in his chest.

Things have changed too much.

"I won't marry you because de Gaulle asked you to ask me," he said, and felt a twinge of pride when his voice didn't shake.

"Angleterre –"

Something clicked in his brain. That word – Angleterre, England – was what was so bloody wrong about the shredded proposal.

"England cannot marry France," he said. He forced himself to retain eye contact. "But Arthur Kirkland would marry Francis Bonnefoy, if that was possible."

Francis released a shaky laugh. "If neither of us die first." He reached over the desk and touched the back of Arthur's hand with shaking fingers. Arthur didn't bat the fingers away and Francis seemed to gain confidence at that, wrapping his long fingers around Arthur's slender wrist.

"You'd better live then, hadn't you Frenchie?"

"Oui, so it would seem."

…

Europe had torn itself apart and even as they stood in the wreckages of their old empires and their old ways, Arthur couldn't find it in him to be miserable. For the first time in years he was dressed in a suit instead of a military uniform and Francis was by his side. He looked better than he had in years – his hair tied back in a tail at the back of his neck and his shirt collar open just enough to reveal his clavicle. Arthur was tempted to bite it, but such things had to be saved for behind closed doors.

Even so, he let their fingers brush together as they were lost in the VE Day celebrations.

Things had changed – a new world had been born, but he wouldn't be alone.


End file.
